


we attract what we're ready for.

by adlibsinfalsetto



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, Street Racing, but it's a minor thing, like.........i cant hide calum's submissiveness i tried, no luke in this one, there's also sort of mention of fake hating each other, there's some sub undertones, they have a secret relationship basically, which was the original prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 15:03:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5630920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adlibsinfalsetto/pseuds/adlibsinfalsetto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is predictable. His boyfriend’s got a 50/50 method; gun it, maintain a front of the pack spot, drain his NOS in the process and hope to win. Too bad optimism doesn’t win races.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we attract what we're ready for.

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit it's been like 8 years HI
> 
> so i started this fic like four months ago as a prompt fill but the prompt fill was muke and i was so frustrated with it because i cant........write them so i changed it to malum and HOLY this is my child !!
> 
> OH IMPORTANT NOTE:
> 
> there's some terminology dealing with racing in there that could be confusing thus i'll just define them here ALSO I DONT DRIVE STICK AKA MANUAL AND THAT'S WHAT CALUM'S CAR HAS SO THERE'S PROBABLY SOME ERROR BUT I TRIED TO RESEARCH okay no more caps
> 
> ps if u watch fast and furious u probably know some of this
> 
> 1) ZL1 is a type of Camaro which u can see [ here ](http://www.heartbeatcity.net/cars/zl1_40/BODY01.jpg)
> 
> and then michael's is [ here ](http://www.seriouswheels.com/pics-2014/r-z-0-9/2014-Shelby-GT500-Super-Snake-Static-13-1440x900.jpg)
> 
> 2) manual cars have a clutch and it's a long explanation just know they have them and because of this they have to shift gears
> 
> 3) when you downshift gears (moving from 2nd to first or whatever) you go faster but you have to upshift at some point or you'll blow ur engine i think
> 
> 4) nos is this shit that makes ur car go faster go watch fast and furious if u want more knowledge
> 
> 5) DONT STREET RACE BYE

Michael is predictable. His boyfriend’s got a 50/50 method; gun it, maintain a front of the pack spot, drain his NOS in the process and hope to win. Too bad optimism doesn’t win races.

Calum’s technique has been refined to near perfection; he’s practically invincible on the streets. Also helps that he’s got over 600 horsepower under the hood and the omnipresent warning of if he loses the ZL1 then he loses the last remnant of his father in the back of his mind. 

Michael foolishly believes he can change that -- has since day one, actually. 

They’d been in a four way race, the pair unbeknownst to one another until Calum is crowned the winner and Michael is deemed first loser. At the end, Calum collects about six grand and a vow from Mr. Second Place that one day he’ll claim the Camaro as his own. Of course, the brunette laughs off the prospect but he begins to pay more attention to Michael because maybe it’s his deluded dedication or just the way he eyes seem to shine with perpetual playfulness that he decides he likes the guy. 

And well, it was all rather downhill from there. Days spent gauging who could hit 60 fastest on backcountry roads turned into nights spent drinking cheap beer on his kitchen floor, dizzy lips spilling their greatest feats and failures. He learned Michael in those first few weeks -- trivial bits like his favorite band is still Brand New or that he was supposed to grow up and be a lawyer in accordance with his father’s wishes. There’s an insatiable hunger that comes along with his acquisition of Michael Knowledge much like a child’s eagerness to learn mathematics or science; he wants to know it all. Calum thinks that’s when he realized he liked the blonde a bit more than he initially thought. 

Nothing really changes. They race, they talk, they laugh -- there’s no inordinate shift from Calum and Michael to CalumandMichael. It’s a fairly slow burn, actually, full of prolonged gazes and lingering touches that reminded Calum far too much of the romantic comedy he’d absentmindedly watched the other night. The flames ignite, however, when Michael appears on his doorstep with an agenda, Calum unable to even get out a greeting before Michael’s kissing him. And the thing is, it’s probably the worst kiss he’s ever received because their teeth knock and their noses bump and the angle is awful but he doesn’t fucking care because it’s Michael. Michael who swears to Gods he doesn’t quite believe in that he’ll beat Calum one day, who guns too fast and too early, who plays Nickelback obnoxiously at eight in the morning. It’s Michael and it’s perfect and when he asks “you want this too, right?” Calum doesn’t say a word, just slots their lips back together in a hasty rhythm because he couldn’t possibly articulate how terribly he wanted this. 

Again, nothing really changes. They race, they talk, they laugh --- except now there’s heated kisses on the hoods of cars, tangled hands in the confines of Calum’s queen bed and morning breakfasts à la Clifford. 

The best part is all of those things are their little secret. 

Everybody knows Calum and Michael but nobody knows CalumandMichael. Actually, most of the people they run with think there’s animosity between the pair, the notion derived from Michael’s coveting of the ZL1 and Calum’s unwillingness to let him win. They don’t feel the need to clarify; instead they play their roles, keep up the affectation of antipathy. It’s not that they’re afraid of what people might think, it’s just the two of them being together and also racing one another could raise suspicion. The situation might differ if Calum wasn’t such a God in the streets --- his following loved him, sure, but there were plenty of Judases who would use anything they could to get him disqualified. So, they keep their relationship quiet to ensure something like that won’t happen. 

Calum thinks he likes it better this way, anyhow; their world is all ostentatious colorings and thunderous engines but Michael is subdued hues and low hums, he’s the balance. 

\---

Most couples spend their anniversary at a nice dinner or simply exchange gifts but for Calum and Michael; it’s still about the race ---- their race, actually. Ironically enough, someone pit the pair against one another in a pink slip race which, in short, meant the winner would walk away with the loser’s car. Yeah, romantic stuff, he knows.

He’s already at the mark when he hears Michael’s Shelby; his clamorous pipes coinciding with the roar of the Camaro’s as the blonde pulls up beside him. Calum revs his engine in recognition, lifting his arm from where it hung out the window in a half-hearted wave. Michael merely looks him over, soft features reflecting an attitude of nonchalance despite the nervous drumming of his fingers against the steering wheel. His boyfriend’s pretty confident in his abilities but Calum knows this is different; his car, his pride, and his reputation were on the line here. 

Happy anniversary. 

“You know, I’m thinking after I win I’m going to get her a new paint job. Maybe like bumblebee yellow or, I don’t know, orange. I know how you love orange.” Calum comments over the cacophony, white teeth flashing in the haze of fluorescent lights. That gets his attention. The cheeky smile spreads as Michael whips toward him, indignant scoff falling from his lips at the very thought of Calum harming his baby. 

“See, this is why everyone wants to kick your ass.”

“I mean…---”

“----Are you two done? People don’t pay to watch you run your mouths.” Kira, one of the girls who officiates the races, interrupts, batting a hand against his door. He revs in response, turning his cheshire grin on her, “C’mon, don’t act like you aren’t excited.” 

Underdog v Champion, it was a race for the ages. There's invariably an air of excitability when Calum races but the night is singing with it.

"Of course. Michael here's got something to prove so it should be quite the show."

"That mean you bet on me?"

His boyfriend looks up at her, all bright eyes and soft smile and honestly, he'd lay bets on Michael too if could.

"I've always had a soft spot for the underdog. Now let's go, are you two ready?" She stands between the two cars, two american muscles with lightyears between them -- Michael's GT500 a sleek contrast to the antique Camaro -- and begins to back slowly, starting on the formalities.

"This is a pink slip race. Most of you know what that is but I like to make the rules explicitly clear; the winner of this race walks away with the loser's car." The noises from the onlookers are boisterous, an audible challenge to the boy. "Two miles. First one to hit Bradford wins. Ashton's down there to make sure there's no debate. So, without further ado," Kira lifts their titles in the air, wild grin on her lips.

"3!"

Calum downshifts, holds the clutch in, prepares himself for launch with a thunderous rev.

"2!"

Anticipation eclipses apprehension; the final countdown was the worst part of the ordeal.

"1!"

Go.

"Go!"

He pops the clutch and floors it before the syllable resounds. The tires grip though he still manages the head start, Michael mere inches behind. They both reach sixty with ease and he knows the pressure is on; it's only two miles and at this rate, they'll be there in under two minutes. He holds his foot to the floor, breaking contact with the gas only to upshift then crank back down to first seconds after. The maneuver should have given him some leverage on the blonde yet Michael’s ahead. Michael’s ahead? His boyfriend’s got a good half a car length on him and, as shitty as it sounds, Calum has to double take. 

His boyfriend’s got a 50/50 method; gun it, maintain a front of the pack spot, drain his NOS in the process and hope to win. Optimism wasn’t supposed to win races. 

And okay, okay, that also sounded shitty but, boyfriend or not, Michael's still his competitor and Calum isn’t one for losing. 

Panic wells deep in the pit of his stomach despite having at least another mile to go. He’s all too attuned to the vitality of advantage; every bit of distance made a difference. His hand reflexively shifts to the knob of the NOS tank -- if he releases just a quarter, he can regain the lost territory. Dark eyes flash to the Shelby as he twists the knob, the hiss of release nearly inaudible in comparison to the thunder of their twin storms. 

“Go.”

It flies through a prison of gritted teeth before he’s propelled forward, the knob he’s gripping hastily turned back right to turn off before he drains too much. He’s pressed close to the steering wheel now thanks to the sudden speed and he can see Michael in the rearview although he’s not anywhere near the clear; there’s barely any distance between the two. He shifts again out of necessity, gaze glued to the speedster beside him. 

Bradford’s half a mile at max; that’s maybe thirty seconds at eighty miles an hour and fifteen of those will be spent in wait. Racing was a lot like fighting -- minus the bruised knuckles and split lips -- most of the time on the streets was spent gauging your opponent, foreseeing their tactics and combatting them effectively. 

He has to wait. Calum is the dependent variable; Michael decides what happens in these last seconds. 

They downshift in harmony and the blonde closes the gap so they’re neck and neck. He can see the dimly lit lettering of Bradford, he can see Ashton lying in wait, he can see the blazing red warning them to STOP. He can see everything but Michael’s next move. 

15 seconds.

His hand twitches over the knob. If he lets it go, he could beat him. If Michael has the same idea, so could he.

12 seconds. 

Michael’s grinning roguishly alongside him. He’s well aware of Calum’s pique for patience.

10 seconds.

Michael goes for it. Calum fumbles to twist the knob.

8 seconds.

They’ve both released their NOS but Michael has the advantage.

5 seconds. 

Calum floors it. He’ll blow his engine before he lets Michael have the car.

3 seconds.

All they have to do is make it through the light. 

2 seconds.

He doesn’t have enough time.

1 second.

Michael crosses the threshold. Calum trails a second behind.

Michael wins.

\---

They pull off into an empty gas station, Ashton not far behind and he knows he’s supposed to get out, surrender the keys, let Ashton call Kira and relay the news but he can't move. It’s not the first time he’s lost, of course, but the stakes were never this high and he knows, he knows that it’s Michael. Michael won’t strip him completely of something so salient. 

What happens if they break up? What if it’s a disaster and Michael stakes his claim on the Camaro and he loses the last piece of his father? WhatifWhatifWhatif.

Calum slams his fist against the steering wheel. 

Stop.  
Michael wouldn’t do that; he was incapable of being malicious and more importantly, he cared about Calum. He wouldn’t do it. 

Exhaustion extinguishes exhilaration and Calum just wants to be home. He doesn’t want to face the masses, doesn’t want to endure the humiliation awaiting back at the lot. 

Hell, maybe it’ll be good for him.

A knock on his window pulls him from brooding --- Ashton hovering outside the door with his quintessential smile. “Can’t hide in there forever, Hood. It’s time to face the music.”

He musters a watery smile before killing the engine and stepping out, meeting Michael’s pitying gaze and Ashton’s hand as it claps his shoulder. The end is swift; Ashton relays the news and the boys silently shake hands, eyes speaking the sentiments fixed behind paralyzed lips. 

And it’s over. 

They go back, the crowd swarming the duo before he can even park --- he’s met with mixed reactions; his supporters decrying his loss while the champions for the underdog hail Michael. It’s not that bad, really, the only true sting is when the ZL1’s title is handed over but Michael’s smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes when receives the Holy Grail of their circuit and, in a terribly selfish way, it makes him feel better.

After a few minutes, he makes his way to Michael, keys lifted in mock surrender. “I guess you’ll be needing these?” The brunette remarks before his boyfriend snatches the metal from his hand, the same shameless grin from before stretching his lips. Calum smiles too --- not the smile he’s tacked on the past ten minutes for his devotees but his Michael smile. This is an accomplishment for the boy even if it’s at his expense. Michael’s always deemed himself first loser and to beat out the almighty Calum Hood? And take his car? That’s a feat. He can’t help but be a little proud. 

“Since I’m so incredibly generous, I’ll let you keep these for now,” Michael proceeds to place the keys back in his grasp, smile tainted with sardonicism. “But I expect her to be in my garage by midnight. Deal?”

“Is that an order?”

“Absolutely.”

Calum huffs a laugh through his nose, giving Michael a pseudo salute. 

“Yes, sir.”

\--

The Camaro is parked in the garage by midnight (per request) and Calum’s face down in Michael’s sheets by 12:02. The probability of him passing out is very high although he’s intent on staying awake long enough to interrogate Michael. Thankfully, he wasn’t too far behind --- the bedroom door opening shortly after Calum arrived.

“----You know, the whole ‘sir’ thing was a nice touch. I think I could get used to that.” 

A snide storm brews behind his lips although simmering as fingers trace up his spine, lips fluttering against his shoulder. He should have expected this; Michael’s apologies come in the form of bruises and blowjobs which, hey, he’s not usually one to complain but now is not the time. (In an hour? Sure.) Calum rolls out of the line of fire, waving a finger in warning at a disgruntled boyfriend, “Nuh uh, we need to talk.”

“Can’t we talk after--”

“No. Not until you tell me how you did it.”

“Did what?” 

Michael blinks with his stupidly big eyes and stupidly pouty lips, and goddamnit, he has no willpower. He rationalizes that Michael won’t talk unless he gets what he wants so when Calum reaches over and pulls him down; he doesn’t feel as powerless to impulse as he truly was. The younger grasps the back of his neck and kisses him with something near reverence. Michael adjusts himself so he’s got a knee on either side of Calum before grinding down against him, causing Calum to swear audibly and nip at Michael's lower lip. "Thought you wanted to talk." The blonde mumbles as he moves to Calum's jaw, pressing kisses in disarray with a hand harmoniously gripping his curls. 

He whines. Calum flat out whines which turns Michael smug and earns him another tug on his hair. 

Here's the part where he thinks he might be getting a tad sacrilegious but he swears when Michael touches him it is the closest he'll ever be to heaven. His only paradise is here -- with Michael's name on his lips like a fallen angel's mantra and his touch baptizing him in saccharine sin. 

His eyes instinctively close as Michael bites at the junction of his neck and collarbone, his hips inadvertently rising at the contact. A hand cards through blonde hair while he tries to regain his thought process because this was absolutely not supposed to be happening.

"H...---how did you do it?"

"Hm?"

"Win, Michael. How did you beat me?" 

"Luck." He punctuates with a kiss to his throat albeit it’s not enough to keep Calum from shoving him off. "We raced a week ago and you lagged at least 4 seconds." The brunette notes without his previous exaltation, pressing himself onto an elbow to stare down the boy. Michael has the audacity to laugh at the notion. “You really are a sore loser.”

“I am not! Like I’m happy for you, Mike --- seriously, it’s just….this wasn’t some circuit race. You got my car; the only thing I care about besides you.” Exasperation laces his tone because was it not obvious? Before Michael, the Camaro was everything. His family had fucked off, his dad was dead and he was racing because he was empty and his car was the only thing that made him feel whole. It was all or nothing all the time. 

Then he comes and, suddenly, Calum is fixated on a boy with foolhearted optimism and a smile that screams alivealivealive and life isn’t all or nothing, anymore. Life with Michael is in between’s; grey mornings, 3rd gear, a B on a test --- he doesn’t have to be everything. He’s just enough. 

Calum collapses back against the mattress, gluing his gaze to the ceiling, “tell me, please. For my own sanity.”

“You don’t trust yourself.” 

Well, that’s not what he expected. He snaps his head toward Michael with a defense poised and ready but he’s met with a silencing hand. “The whole last part of the race you were looking at me --- and while I’m flattered --- I know why you were doing it.” Michael pauses as if he expects an explanation but continues without. “You were waiting to see what I was going to do because you didn’t know for once. And that’s the thing, you rely way too much on what other people do, how they race and yeah, that whole learning the way they drive thing works sometimes but what happens when they change it up? You’ll lose. Same way you did tonight.”

“Shit.”

He’s right. Calum stores faith in predictability. When he memorizes his opponent’s patterns, he trusts they’ll stick to them. He does not account for change. It’s his fatal flaw. Calum supposes he’s known, figured why fix what’s not broken ---- now that it is, can he? 

“You could have won. If you would have released your NOS when your instincts told you to instead of waiting for me then you would have beat me by at least three seconds.” He almost vocalizes a retort about how this was not helping but Michael jumps back into his speech. “Look, you’ve gotta trust your heart over your head out there. You know how to drive, you know how to race better than anyone I’ve ever fucking met so I know if you let go then you’ll be alright.”

“Stop using this,” he taps Calum’s forehead for good measure, “and start using this.” Michael proceeds to poke his ribs and he’s not exactly sure what he’s signifying but he’ll play along. “Or this,” another poke, this time to his stomach, “wherever you feel like your gut feelings….---or whatever. Can I stop now? This is all very Obi Wan for me.” 

“Are you telling me to use the force?”

“Yes, young padawan.” 

“That may be the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Okay, no. Nope. You are not turning Star Wars into a kink. I was trying to be serious.” Michael warns as he rolls off the bed, leaving Calum laughing into his pillowcase. “You’re saying you’ve never pictured me with a rat tail and a lightsaber? I know that Jedi shit turns you on, Mike. You can’t lie to me.” 

“Jesus Christ, okay, I’m going to get something to eat before you ruin my appetite. Do you want anything?” Michael asks with flushed cheeks and a hand scraping over his face. Calum sits up at the mention of food, nodding with a self-satisfied smile on his lips, “depends. Can we go to Steak and Shake? We still need to discuss the terms of the Camaro and you can’t distract me in public.”

“Is that a bet?”

“Michael---”

Michael leers over him, leaning across to bed to tilt Calum’s chin up, “Is. That. A. Bet?” He presses his thumb into Calum’s lower lip and food, coincidentally, becomes the last thing on his mind but if Michael wants to play; he’ll play. 

“Go get the keys.”

**Author's Note:**

> michael kinkshamed calum for u trust me also there's a bit about michael leaving apologies in bruises or something and THATS NOT LIKE BAD BRUISING LIKE GOOD KINKY BRUISING IM SORRY
> 
> ps this fic is a little all over the place im sorry i hope to maybe do more in this universe and also throw lashton in there somewhere!!
> 
> if u dont hate me u can catch me here:
> 
> @ctchfire on tumblr  
> @hauntedhalseys on twitter
> 
> THANKS ILU


End file.
